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We talk nonsense until the chimes of her doorbell echo down the line, and she has to go. The calm, relaxed state I managed to find with her on the phone dissipates without her, and my knee picks up that rhythmic beat again.
Before I can get lost in the tornado of anxiousness and doubts, the passing city view slow and the car rolls to a complete stop. My heart pounds rapidly against the confines of its prison. Sweat beads along my temples and trails down my spine. This is it.
I peer out my window, looking up the length of the imposing black cement structure. It’s an unassuming building. Looking at it, you’d be none-the-wiser about the types of scandalous activities that go on within its walls. There’s no neon sign or flashing lights, nothing declaring the building as a club of any kind.
Consumed by the juxtaposition of the plain exterior and what I know goes down inside, I don’t notice the well-tailored valet heading towards me until my door is wrenched open. A startled squeak rushes out of me as I scramble to catch myself, so I don’t tumble out onto the asphalt. Classy, Devy, real classy.
“Miss?” the valet asks, holding out a hand to help me from the car.
I stare at his proffered hand as though it’s a snake, ready to attack at a moment’s notice. Forcing my gaze away from his hand, my eyes trail up his arm, coming to focus on the large, gold orbs peeking out between long locks of sun-kissed brown bangs.
“Ma’am, may I help you from the car?” he asks again, concern filling his eyes.
I nod and place my shaking hand in his. With a gentle tug, he pulls me from the car. With another hand on my elbow, he steadies me as I stand in unfamiliar black stiletto boots. This is the last time I let Nyx dress me.
“Thanks,” I say and pat the back of the valet’s hand still holding onto my elbow.
“Have a great night, ma’am,” he says, letting go and closing the car door.
I take two steps forward and stop, staring at a man dressed similarly to the valet, except he’s wearing white gloves and has one hand resting on the large golden handle of the blood red double doors decorated in an ornate gold accented trim.
Beside the doorman stands a gorgeous man with dark hair, nearly black in color, tied back in a manbun. He’ holding a black leather portfolio. When I don’t move, he raises a single brow in my direction. A wordless challenge crinkling the corner of his honey brown eyes as his lips tip up into an inviting grin.
Taking a deep breath, I steel my spine and saunter up to him, stopping a foot away. I hold my chin high. An attempt at an air of authority, or maybe class, that I most definitely do not possess.
“Do you have your invitation?” he asks with a slight chuckle. His voice is like honey, smooth and sensual, as it washes over me and settles low in my belly.
“I do,” I chirp, that nervous energy getting the best of me again, as I pull the black envelope from my clutch, waving it in the air.
The man grins, his dark eyes twinkling in the moonlight, full of amusement.
He holds his hand out, and I slap the paper into his palm a little too hard. “I’m so sorry,” I blurt out and snatch the envelope back. Without thought, I smooth my fingertips over the slight red mark the paper left on his skin... His hands are rough with callouses, and I marvel at the texture, wondering what they would feel like on my body.
Now that’s an odd thought to be having. What the hell, Devy?
“I’m okay,” he says, his soft gaze glued to my face. “May I have that back now?” He points to the invitation clutched in my other hand.
I give myself a little shake and pull my hand away from his. An odd sensation tugs at my chest, one that feels eerily similar to loss. I brush off the confusing feeling and hold out the invitation, waiting for him to take it this time.
He gently grabs the envelope and pulls out the orange and black paper inside. After looking it over, he flicks open the forgotten portfolio and flips to a section near the middle and places the invite inside before removing what looks to be an orange plastic bracelet.
“Wrist, please,” he says, holding the bracelet out to me. I hold out my right arm, and he slips the bracelet on, securing it in place. “Don’t lose this or you won’t be able to participate. Understand?”
Absently, I nod as I turn my arm, watching as the orange takes on a new color, making it look as though the bracelet is on fire.
“She’s good to head inside,” the man says, and the other gentleman pulls against the large golden handle. With an audible creak of metal hinges, the wooden door opens. Sounds of music, talking, glasses clanking together, immediately filter out to greet me. The door opens wide in front of me like a portal introducing me to a whole new world of possibilities.
Devin
A shiver races up my spine as I take the first step over the threshold and into the club. The low lighting and sensual atmosphere send goosebumps flashing up both arms. Walking to the center of the large lounge, my eyes trail over the expansive space. Along the back wall sits a large u-shape bar with matching brushed metal stools topped with black velvet cushions. Spaced comfortably throughout the room to encourage conversation are inviting couches and seats in a myriad of dark jewel tones.
A young blonde woman holding a tablet covered in a black leather case floats in my direction, a bright smile spread across her face.
“Hello,” she singsongs, stopping two steps away from me. “Welcome to Club Rapture. My name is Amy.” She sticks her hand out, and I place mine in hers.
“I’m Devin,” I whisper.
“It’s a pleasure, Devin. I see there you got your bracelet, so you’ve already handed in your invitation. I just need to get you to sign this consent to participate before the event starts.” She holds out the tablet to me, and I skim over the document.
